


Reverent

by Morningside



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Priest AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 13:26:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4668221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morningside/pseuds/Morningside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Matt broke into a church seeking shelter, he wasn't expecting to find someone inside.  And he certainly wasn't expecting that someone to be a tough young priest named Claire Temple.</p>
<p>(In which Matt Murdock is a mess who has no idea how to appropriately interact with female clergy.  Maybe it's a Catholic thing.  Maybe it's the devil in him.  And maybe he's found a kindred spirit.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: Matt Murdock is a creepy disaster of a human being and I’m not condoning his example. Please don’t hit on your friendly neighborhood clergypeople just because of their job. :)
> 
> I shouldn't be posting another WIP, but this fandom desperately needs more Claire. Be the change you wish see in the world.

Nobu’s men are close, too close, and there’s clearly something wrong with his ankle. Even though the pain is distant through the adrenaline, he can feel it grinding, threatening to give out. Matt needs to find shelter, fast. He knows his body’s limits.

They’ve managed to herd him down a street that is amazingly free of scaffolding. The walls are high and forbidding around him. Locked up businesses with locked up windows, with no discernible way to scale to the rooftops. Damn, _damn_.

But there’s a church on the corner, with a tall, square bell tower that promises an escape to the roofs. He’s never been inside. He remembers it’s Protestant, maybe Presbyterian, but any port in a storm. He just hopes the gangsters don’t follow him in and smash things up on his account. He doesn’t think he can deal with a ruined church on his conscience.

Perhaps this was a bad idea after all.

But there’s a window propped open on the first floor (behind a fence, but that’s no trouble), and if that isn’t a sign, he doesn’t know what is, so he hurls himself inside. He tries to roll, but the impact on his ankle pulls a harsh grunt from his throat. No way he’s ascending a steeple like this. He bites back a curse – and hears a startled gasp echoing out from the front of the large, vaulted room.

“Sanctuary!” he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “Please. There are bad men, evil men, after me, and they’ll kill me if they find me. I’m hurt. Is there somewhere I can hide?”

Improbably, the stranger rushes towards him, “Okay, okay, did they see you come in here? Let’s get you into the sacristy –” then she freezes. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Oh God. Oh shit.”

He really needs to get a different look until he’s cleared his name. “The explosions, the police officers… That wasn’t me, I swear it.” He’s in a church, she’s in a church, it’s time to get sincere. “In the name of Christ, on my father’s grave, whatever it takes. I don’t hurt innocent people and I won’t hurt you.   _Please_.” He can hear the bark of voices searching, approaching. They don’t have much time.

The woman pauses for a long moment, then: “You had better not be lying about swearing to Jesus, or I swear to his big daddy I will kick your ass. C’mon. Follow me.” She turns, tense and determined, and he limps awkwardly after her between the pews.

As they ascend the stairs to the altar, his breath catches and he reflexively ducks his head. This is sacred space, powerful space – but she strides across the holy ground like she owns it. She turns and unlocks a door behind the pulpit. Whoever she is, she must be staff. She’s no ordinary congregant holding a late-night vigil. She gestures him inside the door, giving him a wide berth as he passes. He pauses, trying to get a sense of the little room (lots of fabric muffling his hearing, the aromas of candle wax and wine residue and brass) – and there’s a knock at the church’s front door.

“Open up! NYPD!”

“They’re corrupt,” he gasps. “Maybe not even real cops.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice. Now, hide!” She practically shoves him out of the way to throw open the lid of a wooden chest inside the sacristy. She pulls out a huge piece of cloth, bundles him into the chest, throws the cloth back over him, and closes the lid over his head. It thumps against his forehead as it falls, cushioned by what must be altar linens.

Matt strains to hear her as she rushes off and unlocks the main doors. The fabric cocoon dulls his senses; he is encased in the smell of old wax. The echoes of the church – normally so soothing – make it hard for him to make out the conversation. There are…two men, maybe three. He could probably take them, but only by exposing the church – and his nameless protector – to harm. What a horrible place to hide, so few exits and so much potential for soul-scarring destruction. But there’s nothing to be done for it now, and the voices don’t seem to be getting any closer, so he sinks down into the layers of sacred fabrics and waits.

* * *

She returns and lifts the lid several long minutes later. “So I just lied to men with badges on the threshold of my church.” Her voice is hard.

“I’m sorry. Is that a problem for you?”

“God knows I’ve seen enough to be wary of the NYPD, but…I don’t like lying. Ninth commandment and all that.”

“Did they believe you?”

“I think so. They left.”

He bows his head, listens for the men’s conversation. They’ve started down the street. “Good. I don’t know how to thank you.”

She crosses her arms above him. “I don’t suppose that getting the hell out of here and letting me forget about this is an option?”

“I’ll go if you want me to, but… I’m sorry to put you in danger, but they’ll still be out there looking for me, and I don’t think I can evade them yet. My ankle.”

“So what do we do now?”

He lifts he shoulders guiltily. “We wait? You can just leave me. You won’t even know I’m here. I’ll just slip out –”

She huffs out an incredulous breath. “Leave you? Mister, I might have saved your sketchy ass, but I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“So…we wait. Together.” The moment stretches out into awkward, burning silence. Maybe he should get out of this trunk. “Is there…is there any chance you have an ice pack around here?”

“ _Great_.” She takes a steadying breath. “Well, as long as I’m breaking every other rule…do you think you can manage stairs if I support you? You can come upstairs to my rectory and I’ll RICE that leg for you. We’ll just have to figure out how to sneak you out without my congregants seeing. Though I’d almost pay to see their faces if they saw our local demonic terrorist exiting my rooms, provided you don’t murder me in my sleep.”

He starts at that. “Your congregants –”

“What, don’t tell me you didn’t notice! Did you think I was playing dress-up?” She snorts incredulously and taps on something at her neck. And then another piece of the puzzle snaps into place – the rasp of fabric just beneath her chin that signals a priest’s collar. He should have sensed it from the start, but all the signs screaming “woman” had drowned out that whisper of stiff plastic at her throat.

“I’m so sorry, uh, Reverend. I guess I was distracted.” He feels like shit for ignoring all the evidence, for insulting her – but also for the sudden guilty rush of _interest_ that sweeps over him. He’s never really known a female priest (pastor? minister?), let alone one who’s young, and brave, and gifted with such a lovely, low voice. “That’s no excuse, but –”

“Please, if I were that easy to offend, I would’ve needed to find a different job ages ago. Just, try not to get too weird about it, yeah?” He stammers his assent. “So let’s back up. Introductions. I’m Claire, Rev. Claire if you prefer, the rector here at St. Michael and All Angels Episcopal Church. And you’re the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Something like that.”

“No name, of course. Not with that mask.”

“Sorry.”

“And you’re what, Catholic?”

“The less you know about me, the better.”

She snorts. “Don’t even try that on me, mister.  You literally flung yourself through a stained glass window while screaming _sanctuary_. Who else would have such a flair for the dramatic? Who else would think that “sanctuary” is a _real thing?_ ”

He ducks his head and shoots her a coy smile; her heartbeat quickens. “I can neither confirm nor deny your hypothesis.”

“So the devil _is_ Catholic! My Lutheran colleagues would eat that right up.”

“Oh _no_ , my priest would kill me.”

“Yeah, yeah, your secret’s safe with me. Okay, you ready to get thee beside me, Satan? Let’s move. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.” He wraps his arm around her shoulders and she grabs his waist, and together they begin the ungainly ascent to her apartment. His face is close, so close to her neck, and her long hair is fragrant with incense.


	2. Chapter 2

 Once upstairs, she seats him on her couch, then tugs on her lamp. As the light hits him full in the face, she swears in surprise.

He tenses. Is there something she recognizes in his face? “What’s wrong?”

“No offense, but what I can see of you looks like shit. Your face took one hell of a beating.”

“And you have quite the mouth for a priest,” he counters, relieved. “No offense. Reverend.”

“Yeah, I try to keep it under control around the choir ladies, but you’re not exactly one of my congregants. Contrary to popular belief, I happen to be an ordinary human being who sometimes needs to swear when the situation calls for it. And I’d say that having you drop in on me, Lucy, is a damn good excuse.”

“Lucy?”

“I’m _so_ not calling you ‘devil,’ and ‘Lucifer’ is a mouthful. But I’ve got to call you something, so: Lucy. You prefer Damien or something? Straight-up Satan? Unless you want to give me a real name…?”

“Um,” he flashes her his bashful grin, and again hears an answering spike in her blood. The devil in him hungers for more. “Lucy works, I guess. Your church, your rules.”

“Damn straight it’s my rules,” she nods. “So you’re gonna stay right there while I get you some ice and painkillers.”

“And maybe some antiseptic wipes if you have them? I have some scrapes that I should take care of.” Meaning that there’s gravel embedded in his shoulder, but she doesn’t need to see that.

“I’ll see what I’ve got,” she sighs, then stalks off for supplies. He wincingly removes the boot from his swollen foot and sprawls out on her ratty couch to wait.

As she passes through the kitchen for ice, she grabs a knife. She’s very quiet pulling it from the block. She’s not stupid; Matt approves. He wonders how she would defend herself if things came to that. Would she have the nerve to use the blade?

She returns with a blade in her back pocket and her arms full of supplies – Ace bandages, a rattling box that’s probably the antiseptic wipes, a tube of something that might be Neosporin. Lots of ice. She’s done this sort of thing before. She wraps the ice in a towel and nestles it around his swollen ankle. “Okay, show me what else you’ve got going on.”

“Um. Thanks, but I can take care of it from here. I’m used to taking care of myself.”

She gives a low, empathetic hum. Her bearing shifts to something softer. “Not too many people looking out for you, huh?”

“The job doesn’t exactly come with backup dancers.”

“That must be tough, trying to do this all by yourself.”

She’s trying to use her priest-y powers to scent him out. He needs to be more careful. “Look, I need to take off my shirt to get at these scrapes. So if that’s going to make you uncomfortable, _Reverend_ …”

She stiffens again. “Lucy, we are so far past comfortable right now, but I’ve said I’m not letting you out of my sight, so I might as well make myself useful.”

“Your church, your rules,” he repeats. The shirt hurts to peel off his raw skin, but it’s worth it to feel the flush in her cheeks. She likes what she sees. He likes that she likes what she sees.

God, she’s a _priest_. He’s going to have a lot to explain at his next confession.

“You weren’t kidding about those scrapes,” she says, voice betraying nothing. “God, I hope you didn’t bleed on the paraments. No idea how I’d explain that to the altar guild.”

“Sorry, Reverend.”

“Don’t. It’s my own damn fault for stashing the bleeding terrorist in with the linens.” She kneels beside him. “You ready?”

Matt’s hit by an awful premonition. “Are you going to, ah, pray over me? For healing?”

“Would you like that? I can, but I have to warn you that charismatic healings aren’t exactly my gig.  I was thinking more along the lines of antiseptic wipes and compression wraps. But we can pray for whatever you’d like, if that’s what you want.”

“No. That sounds good. The first aid, I mean. Not the…praying stuff.” He suppresses a cringe. She must think he’s an idiot.

“Good. Then let’s get started on that shoulder. Brace yourself; these wipes aren’t going to feel good.”

She isn’t lying about the pain, but it’s a relief to get the grinding dirt out of his skin. Her hands are steady, confident. She’s no amateur. It’s good that the antiseptic under her fingers stings. Otherwise... 

Her breath catches when she gets to his raw knuckles. The cracked joints are a reminder to both of them that he has inflicted violence tonight, not just received it. She’s scared, but she doesn’t pull away.

“I have to ask…why are you helping me? After everything the news says I’ve done?”

“Giving people the benefit of the doubt is sort of in the job description. I’ve found that lots of people are just waiting to be offered the chance to prove the world wrong about them.”

“But what if I actually am some crazy bomber?”

Her hand stills. “What, you want me to call the cops after all?"

“I couldn’t blame you if you did.”

She resumes blotting the dried blood from his hands. It takes her a few moments to respond. “Yeah, of course I’ve seen the footage of you beating people up. And I felt that explosion – I was afraid we might be under attack again. But I’ve also heard some other things. Stuff about kids rescued from kidnappers, people protected from attackers. Rumors of a man in a mask who comes when you cry for help in the dark. Stories I can’t ignore.”

He turns his hand over to press against her palm. Her fingers twitch in surprise but she doesn’t pull away. She lets the blood-smeared wipe flutter to the ground. “Those are the stories you should trust. Listen to the people. The people of this city, the people I’ve helped…they’re the ones who understand who I am, why I need to do what I do.”

“And what is it that you need to do?”

“Listen to those stories you’ve been hearing and you’ll understand.”

“Obviously I have been listening, seeing as a bleeding, shirtless guy in a mask is on my couch. You’re just lucky that clergy are such gossips.”

He grins up at her. “And what sort of stories are you going to be telling people about me, _Reverend_?”

“Not a _word_.” She yanks her hand away. “As soon as you’re out of here, I’m going to check those linens for bloodstains and then forget you were ever here. And you can stop saying ‘reverend’ like it’s a come-on. I’m not your priest, and you aren’t my responsibility. Just…call me Claire, yeah?”

“Of course…Claire.”

Her hair catches on her shirt as she shakes her head, exasperated. “I need to get you on your feet so I can get you out of here. Time to take care of that ankle?”

She’s as fiercely competent at wrapping up the joint as she seems to be at everything else. “You’ve had some practice at this,” he finally comments.

“There have been plenty of injuries to go around these last couple years. And you – you seem to have some experience at being injured.”

“It comes with the territory.”

“And what territory is that, Lucy?”

He tightens his lips, turns his face away from her.

“Look, I think I deserve to know why I’m helping out a wounded criminal. Why were those men chasing you?”

“To be fair, I was chasing them first…” he smirks. 

“You’re not helping.”

“They’re…they’re one cord in the noose that is strangling this city. They’re part of a network that brings in drugs and exports human lives. They need to be stopped, but…they have connections. So I need to do what the law can’t.”

“Exports human lives. You mean human trafficking? Jesus,” she murmurs, and it’s more a plea than a curse.

And so he tells her – not everything – but he outlines the corruption pulsing just under the surface of Manhattan’s gleaming skin. He tells her about crime, about power, about the need to fight shadows with shadows. She serves the people of this city, and from her sagging couch and weary voice, he can tell it’s not easy work. She deserves to know what she’s up against.

By the time he’s finished, she’s sitting on the floor by his feet, her forehead in her hands.

“Shit. I knew things had gotten bad, but…shit.”

“Yeah. And I’m afraid they’re going to get worse before they get better. You need to be careful, to tell your congregants to watch out. There aren’t many people you can trust.”

“And I’m supposed to trust a guy who will show me his chest but not his face?”

“Oh! Um,” he tugs his shirt back on, hoping she didn’t notice the blush that he feels lighting up his skin. Probably too late – she’s snickering at him. “Sorry, Claire, but I promise it’s for your own protection. I don’t want you to be a target.”

“Amen to that.”

“But even without drawing attention to yourself, I can’t help noticing that things have hit your building hard. Some of your windows downstairs were boarded up. Break-ins?”

“There’s a lot of desperate people out there. I can’t blame them; this place looks rich from the outside. But once we lock the silver up in the sacristy, there’s not much left to take, unless they want a busted printer. It’s not a big deal. We haven’t had any trouble yet this month – at least not until you showed up.”

He smiles at her. His heart is singing at the thought of having a way to repay her. “You won’t have to worry about trouble any more. Not from me. And not from anyone else. I promise it, Claire.”

She stiffens. “I don’t like accepting promises when I’m not sure what they really mean.”

“You won’t see me. But I think you’re a good priest, Claire. I want to help keep your church safe.”

“Physically?”

He shrugs.

“How? Street brawls? We believe in peace here, Lucy! Turn the other cheek? Father, forgive them? Ring any bells? Yeah, it sucks getting robbed, but we’re no worse off than anyone else. We shouldn’t be immune just because we’ve got gothic windows.”

“I won’t hurt anyone.”

“Really?”

“Not unless I really, really have to.”

“Unbelievable! I’d say something about the devil being a tempter, but I’m not even tempted by the offer.” _Lie_. “We don’t want that kind of _help_ , and we don’t need it.” _Lie._ “I don’t want to see you around here ever again, not if you’re going to bring violence with you.” _Not a lie, but not the truth either._

“I’ll go, then. Sorry to overstay my welcome.”

“You really think you’re good to move already?”

“Crazy vigilante, remember?” He pulls on his boot, tests out his ankle. It hurts, but he can work with it, especially now that there’s no one on his trail. “I can get away safely. I promise no one will associate me with you or your church. Good bye, Claire. And thank you.”

“Good. I’ll take you out the service entrance. Let’s…hey, the stairs are this way. What are you – oh, don’t you even try it.”

Matt has lifted her nearest window and is perched on the sill, considering his options. He could make the fire escape to his left, but his landing would make an unholy clatter. So up to the tilting church roof it is. He jumps to grab the eaves above his head, then scrambles up the side of the building and off into the night.

The stunt will make his foot hurt like hell tomorrow, but it’s worth it to hear how she runs to the window after him, then stands there for long minutes afterward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> morningsided.tumblr.com


End file.
